


Hearts Here and Here

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [10]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, F/M, Funny, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one can really tell what's in those ultrasound pictures, can they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Here and Here

No matter which way Donna turned the printouts of the scans, John still couldn’t make anything out of them.

“Look, it’s an arm,” she insisted, tracing an elongated grayish-white streak vaguely reminiscent of a bowling pin. “And here’s the little fist.”

He squinted at it. “Ah! Right. I see it now. So this is the elbow, then?” He pointed.

Donna glared at him.

“I can’t be the first person to admit they can’t see what is alleged to be pictured on these things,” John defended himself. “Anyway, that one’s got at least one arm. Good. Good start.” John leaned back into the sofa, crossed his arms. Donna exhaled her exasperation and shuffled the printouts.

“Here,” she insisted, tucking her legs up beneath her and leaning her arm against John’s. “This dark spot here is a heart.” She tapped another section of the picture. “And here’s the other one.”

John hummed noncommittally.

“You’re hopeless. You know that.” Donna rotated the printout ninety degrees. “Wait, _are_  those the hearts? Now I’m confused.” John stifled a laugh. “They should label these before they hand them to you,” Donna protested.

She began sifting through the printouts, sliding each successive one to the back of the pile as she examined them. John grabbed one out of her grasp.

“No mistaking this, though,” he asserted, jabbing his finger at it. “That’s my boy, there.” He grinned.

Donna snatched it back and tossed the whole pile onto the coffee table. “Yes, yes. Well done, you and your Y chromosomes,” she huffed. Then, softer: “I do like hearing their wee heartbeats, though.” She snuggled against John, stroking the sleeve of his jumper, resting her head on his shoulder. He turned his head to kiss her hair, took the opportunity to inhale its fruit-and-flowers scent.

“Yeah, I never get tired of it,” he agreed.

“A boy for you; a girl for me,” Donna mused.

“It’s positively boggling.”

“What about names?”

“Oh, I don’t know; haven't thought much about it. But if you’re like every woman I’ve ever known, you’ve had your favourites pegged since you were small.”

“Doctor Watson,” Donna mock-scolded, “Surely you know by now that I’m nothing like every woman you’ve ever known.”

“True, Missus,” he conceded.

“My dad’s name was Geoffrey, but his middle name was William,” Donna offered, “So if we called the boy after my grand-dad—Wilfred—but shortened it to Wil, it’s like naming him for both.”

“I like that,” John agreed, “Wilfred called Wil. What about the girl?”

Donna asked, “What was your mum’s name?”

“Amelia,” John replied, “But everyone called her Amy.”

“That’s settled then,” Donna said with finality. “Amy and Wil.” She got up from the sofa and stretched. “I’ll make tea. Is Sherlock expected?” They’d come back to Baker Street after the appointment with the midwife, at Donna’s suggestion. She insisted it was only because the girls were in, cleaning, at her flat. But John suspected that despite her insistence she was happy with the luxurious flat she’d extorted Mycroft Holmes into arranging for her, she missed living at Baker Street.

As John checked his watch, they heard the front door opening downstairs. Sherlock bounded up and into the flat. With a flourish, he slammed the palm of his hand onto the kitchen table, then lifted it to reveal a pitted, worn, and slightly greasy lug nut.

“Japanese car!” he stated triumphantly. John looked expectant, mildly curious. Donna proffered her cheek, which Sherlock dutifully kissed by way of greeting.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Please.” Sherlock wheeled, pointed at the lug nut again and addressed John. “Why would a serial jewel thief be driving a Japanese car?”

John offered, “Because they’re reliable and hold their resale value?”

“You’re hopeless,” Sherlock scoffed. “You know that.”

“That’s what I told him!” Donna said, pouring hot water from the kettle. “He says he can’t see what’s in the ultrasound scans. Arms, hearts, tiny wee naughty bits—it’s all the same to him.”

Sherlock crossed to the coffee table, knelt on the floor, and fanned the curled-edged sheets of shiny paper across the tabletop. After a few seconds’ observation, he said, “One of each, you must be pleased.”

John shook his head. “That's a lucky guess.”

Sherlock pointed. “Arm, fist, elbow.” He pointed again. “Hearts, here and here.” He tapped the next printout and pronounced, “Skull, eye socket, nose. . . And here, a girl. Here, a boy. Can you really not tell?”

John threw up his hands. “Spare me the squinty-eyed look of disgust, would you?”

Donna set a cup of tea in front of each of them, then went back to the kitchen for her own. She settled back on the sofa and rested her feet in John’s lap. “We were just talking about names,” Donna informed Sherlock. “We haven’t gotten to middle names, though. The girl will be Amelia, after John’s mum.”

“Evertrue,” Sherlock said between sips of tea.

“What’s that?” John asked, turning his head as if he hadn’t heard.

“It was my grandmother’s name. For your daughter’s middle name.”

“It’s lovely,” Donna said.

“I actually like that,” John admitted. “What was your grandmother like?”

“Elderly,” Sherlock replied. “Mostly deaf. Completely senile. But my understanding is that in earlier days she may have had her hands in some interesting things.” He paused again--to sip his tea, and for effect. “It was no accident that John Profumo and Christine Keeler met at a particular nightclub on a particular evening, for instance.”

John looked vaguely impressed. Donna looked blank. John quickly told her, “War minister in the early ‘60s. London Swings party girl. Huge scandal. They made a movie about it.”

“Anyway, the boy will be called Wil,” Donna said. “Wilfred, for my grand-dad.”

Sherlock immediately offered, “Kairos.”

“Bit weird,” Donna replied, wrinkling her nose in that way she had. “Who’s that, your batty uncle?”

Sherlock ignored the teasing. “It’s Greek. It describes the moment between moments, when something significant occurs. ‘The moment when God acts.’”

Donna and John exchanged a glance, John with raised eyebrows, Donna shrugging her shoulders.

“It’s as good as any,” she said. She shifted on the sofa, leaned over to run her hand over Sherlock’s head, pat his cheek. “Well done, you.”

“This whole experiment is fascinating, but the two of you focus on the least interesting parts.”

Nearly in unison, John and Donna said, “It’s not an experiment!”

Sherlock looked mildly exasperated, slightly baffled.

“You keep saying that.”


End file.
